


Invisible String

by helgaeunoia



Category: brightwin - Fandom, เพราะเราคู่กัน | 2gether: The Series (Thailand TV), เพราะเราคู่กัน | 2gether: The Series (Thailand TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Cottagecore, First Meetings, Fluff, Introspection, Just a self-indulgent fic to be honest, Kissing, M/M, Nature, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helgaeunoia/pseuds/helgaeunoia
Summary: The soft light filters through the trees as Bright steps out of his car, tired feet crunching in the gravel, and he can’t help but sigh. He lugs his suitcase out of the boot and slings his guitar case over a shoulder, idly rubbing his chin with the back of his hand.He’s back in the idyllic town of Sukhothai, and he doesn’t know what to expect.Cottagecore AU. In which Bright goes back to his hometown after his stumbling music career, only to find inspiration in a stranger whose eyes turn into crescent moons when he smiles.
Relationships: Bright Vachirawit Chivaaree & Win Metawin Opas-iamkajorn, Bright Vachirawit Chivaaree/Win Metawin Opas-iamkajorn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 159





	Invisible String

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Taylor Swift's album 'Folklore', track eleven.

When Bright first arrives, it’s golden.

The soft light filters through the trees as he steps out of his car, tired feet crunching in the gravel, and he can’t help but sigh. He lugs his suitcase out of the boot and slings his guitar case over a shoulder, idly rubbing his chin with the back of his hand.

A flurry of swallows chirp as they startle and swoop at the new arrival.

_Bright sighs._

And the quiet sighs back.

* * *

In all honesty, it wasn’t a well thought out plan.

Bright had found himself a little lost and a little drunk on a Tuesday night, murmuring on the phone to First about his stumbling music “career”, halfheartedly crooning tentative lyrics down the line which he received with earnest words and hums at the right moments.

“I just—“ he cuts himself off in the middle of a melody.

“Just what?”

“I don’t—I don’t know how to make it mean something. It feels like it’s missing something.”

“You sound like P’Foei. Everything means something, Bai,” First’s voice is kind, but it’s obvious he’s trying to make himself sound rational.

Bright huffs.

“Don’t try to make it that deep,” Bright leans back in his armchair and absently peers out the window into the darkness. He can almost make out the flickering lights of the city in the distance and it makes something thrum beneath his chest. “I just want to make something nostalgic, nong. You know those albums? The ones that make you miss something that you’ve never had.”

“Alright Mr Don’t Get Deep With Me,” First scoffs.

“Shut up,” Bright groans, and rubs his hand over his face. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” He speaks carefully. “I think I do.”

Bright watches the city like a lifeline, wondering if First is also sitting in the dark like him. It was unlikely, he knew his friend was living with his lover in Phuket. 

He feels a sudden ache deep in his bones and he is reminded of how much he is alone.

“You’ll find someone, phi. Chances are, that person is also looking for someone, someone like you.”

Bright watches the lights slowly blink out as the people say goodnight.

“I really hope so.”

He turns away from the window to regard the clock above the doorway, just making out the time in the amber of the street lamps outside.

“By the way, I’ll go there tomorrow.”

* * *

Inside the cottage, it’s not at all how Bright remembers.

But then again, the last time he was here he must have been at least two heads closer to the ground, so maybe if he walked across the tiles on his knees it would feel the same.

As it is, he is all of six feet and the hallway suddenly feels too small to hold both his limbs and his luggage. It’s barely six in the evening, but the long drive has everything in his body yearning for bed and even twisting to turn the light on feels like an effort.

Bright glances around at the familiar furniture; the dresser by the door, still holding summer hats that can’t have touched a head in years; the small table under the mirror with the slightly wonky legs. He remembers when he used to run into the hall like a hurricane, careening his limbs into everything in his path, still not completely in control of his own body.

He smiles, tosses the keys in the dish laid out for them and makes his way across the uneven floors.

It’s a shock when he has to duck slightly in the entrance to the kitchen, like the house is reminding him that he’s too old now to be playing grown-ups alone in the fridge light. He shifts his guitar off his shoulder, unceremoniously dumping it on the countertop before strolling back to the car to grab the bag of groceries he brought with him from home.

As he unpacks the food into the cupboards and the fridge, he skims over the contents and notes that he’ll only be well stocked for three days at most. He curses his poor planning under his breath and groans when he pulls the milk out of the bag, belatedly realising that it will have spoilt after four hours in the warm car.

Although he could really do with a cup of tea after spending so long cramped behind the wheel, he resigns himself to making a small bowl of pasta that he nurses in front of the TV, vacantly watching reruns of a show he knows his mum likes.

By the time he pulls himself off the sofa, it’s gone ten, and he feels boneless as he rifles through his suitcase for an old shirt to sleep in. He brushes his teeth while watching himself in the mirror, wincing at the harsh bathroom light and the oppressive whir of the fan.

The guitar lies forgotten in the dark of the kitchen.

* * *

The barn had been in the Chiva-aree's family for as long as Bright could remember.

When he, First, and their other cousins were kids, they’d spend weeks at a time cooped up in Sukhothai Province with only each other for entertainment. Summers in Khiri Mat would sway between two extremes—sickly sweet warmth and harsh wet winds. Driving down to the sands of the town would have First and Bright giggling in the backseats, taking childish bets of which side of the pendulum that summer would err on, both secretly praying for hot beach days that would bring them ice creams.

After time, his parent’s marriage would reflect the turbulent weather as it became its own pendulum. His father left with just a pair of keys for an empty house nestled away in the comfort of a Ratchaburi hill in his wake.

Absent of the swell of family, Khiri Mat Barn became laughable—it was suddenly so clearly a cottage in both size and meekness without the roar they’d become accustomed to—and so it was dropped.

To the Chiva-aree, it was Khiri Mat. Or more affectionately, the ‘cottage’.

* * *

Even though he hasn’t been there in years, winding through the country roads to town is still second nature to Bright. It’s still early in the morning; Bright had only brought a box of local cereals for breakfast and quickly deemed them to be inedible without milk.

Once again, on the short drive, he’s struck by the quiet of the country. Despite having his windows wound down in an attempt to dislodge the humidity already heavy in the air, the roads seem still with just a radio DJ mumbling through the static of the tiny speakers.

It’s hard for Bright not to smile when he gets into the more residential areas, with houses that look identical to the ones he ran squealing amongst lifetimes ago, down to the garden gnomes and the cheerful colours of front doors.

He stops in the small car park by the library and makes his way to the corner shop.

Inside, he drifts through the aisles, filling his basket with cartons of milk and fruit to replace those that bruised on the way down. Driven by the yawn he feels in the back of his throat, he also throws in an iced coffee and surprises himself when he has to suppress a laugh at the thought of Mike’s disappointed face at the glass bottle and Starbucks logo.

Exiting the shop, he notices the eatery a little way up the street. Of all the novelties of the town, he finds himself most pleased that the diner remains the same. Merely the sight of the quaint lettering of the fading sign in the window is enough for Bright to suddenly remember the copious numbers of cha yen he consumed there as a kid.

Despite the child inside him yearning to open the door and hear the friendly chime of the bell, he heads back towards his car, promising himself that he’d go back there at some point in his small excursion.

On the journey back to the cottage, Bright really allows himself to be soaked in the morning sun as it dapples through the trees. He winds the windows of his battered Ford Focus down and as the cool air whistles through his hair, his face sinks into a soft smile. He knows why he came here, now.

He knows why he came home.

The quiet of the country is just so different from the city, he thinks. Though he doesn’t really consider where he lives to be in Bangkok. When he really thinks about it, he hasn’t driven on a road without other cars on it in years. Maybe even since the last time he came to Sukhothai.

It’s coming up to eleven now, and the birdsong is still catching the wind, even this late in the day.

His smile deepens, and something warm settles under his ribs.

* * *

After sipping his coffee and settling down with a heaped bowl of khao tom, Bright rummages through his suitcase to grab his notebook and snatches his guitar from where he left it the previous night.

He runs his hands over the strings and begins to strum his way through a few familiar chord patterns, trying to see if anything sticks.

Just like with the last few months, he struggles with anything that doesn’t seem overly familiar—all of them sounding reminiscent of hits he must have heard hundreds of times on the radio. It’s like his brain is just on a loop of the Top Forty and that those are all that he can convince his hands to take the shape of.

He flops back onto the sofa and angrily plays out 04.00 A.M. by Solitude is Bliss while shouting the muffled lyrics into a cushion.

* * *

The next day, Bright decides that he will treat himself to that cha yen he’s been craving from the eatery.

As he drives down into the little town, he can’t help but smile again. The ease of the fields seems to be waking up the child in him and he finds himself with the sudden urge to just stop the car in the middle of the road and run into the wheat to lay down and sleep.

Bright reckons that he deserves the drink he’s been hunting out as conciliation for the practically traumatic experience of trying to write yesterday. He’s at a loss as to why he can’t seem to just buckle down and write something, doesn’t understand why every lyric and every riff he notes down seems jolted and stubborn. It’s not even like he’s had any sort of big event in his life recently that could have thrown him off.

And, Bright considers, as he parks his car, it’s not like he could pinpoint any sort of trigger for his sudden song writing celibacy anyway. It seems to have been slipping out from under his fingers for quite a while, a sort of slow release, instead of a big dramatic moment where he woke up and couldn’t even play an e minor chord on his guitar.

So perhaps he shouldn’t expect his missing music ability to rush back all at once like some magic tidal wave. Maybe he should just fuck about in Phuket for as long as it takes for the gods to take pity on him and breathe some magic back into his fretboard.

Bright pushes the door of the eatery open and is somewhat charmed by the little bell that chimes his arrival, as a small part of him getting giddy at being back in a restaurant which was such a classic spot in his childhood.

The server currently has his back to him, so Bright chances a quick look around and finds himself infinitely pleased by the rustic diner-style booths and checked brown and white floor. Both seem to be the same ones he remembers from his countless meals he weaselled out of his parents, albeit a bit cracked and worse for wear. Luckily, he thinks, this kind of place almost benefits from it. It being a 50’s style diner in the middle of a rural town means that entering it already feels a little like stepping into a time machine, and the chips in its décor simply adds to the character.

Startling him, the server swivels around so that he’s facing Bright, and suddenly the rustic booths don’t appear to be the only thing in the diner that Bright feels charmed by.

He’s taller than Bright by almost a head and his hair is swooped gently across his forehead into a fringe. Despite the poor lighting in the diner, Bright can see that he has pretty black eyes, a dimple at the corner of his lips, and a face that he would describe as defined if he was the type to pathetically fall in love with strangers he just met. 

Which he isn’t. So, no worries.

The server coughs a little when Bright leaves a too long a gap before saying anything and Bright feels himself flush, frantically hoping that it’s not too obvious or that at the very least he would be able to pass it off as a side effect from the slowly rising muggy heat outside.

“Table for one, then?” The stranger asks, eyes amused. Bright finds his lack of accent in his Sukkhotai dialect slightly upsetting, he was hoping to hear the comfort of a mellow voice, but the server’s central Thai lilt reminds him of home and he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed.

“Uh—yeah, that’d be fine thanks. Just me today,”

At that, the server smiles at him and grabs a menu from a holder by the front of the restaurant, before turning and leading Bright over to a bar by the window facing out into the high street. As his back is turned, Bright winces at his words.

_Just me today. Christ._

“Are you okay with sitting up by the window?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bright says, as he settles into the bar stool. As he glances up at the server he catches a glimpse of his name tag—Win. 

God, Win is a fitting name.

Bright gulps. “That’s great with me.”

“Wonderful,” Win smiles, his eyes crinkling up sweetly turning into a crescent moon, causing Bright to have a heart attack then and there. “I’ll be back around in a few minutes to collect your order.”

Win then swerves off through the maze of bar stools and booths, presumably to go and be the perfect server for another lucky soul.

Shaking himself, Bright picks up the laminated menu that Win had handed him and skims over it in search of his much yearned for cha yen. He quickly finds what he was after and swallows his horror at the little 150 baht next to it, telling himself he’s only in for a drink and not a meal, so it’s justifiable.

However, when he realises what covers the rest of the menu, it becomes apparent that it was futile to swallow his horror in the first place.

Instead of the standard pad thai, som tum, tom yum goong, and others that are sold by your typical Thailand diner, the menu was full of pizza.

_Pizza._

Bright’s face pulled taut in confusion, he turned the menu over and found more… pizza.

He double checks the name on the top of the menu to see if he’s in the right place, and that relying on his impeccable memory instead of a sat nav to get here wasn’t a stupid idea, but there on the top it is. 

The Eatery, in the easily recognisable fading font.

“Are you ready for me to take your order?”

Bright got startled for the second time that day and put the menu down on the bar in front of him, smoothing his hands over it as he turns, facing Win.

He gives his order of their special cha yen, smiling when Win compliments him on his choice as he writes it down on the pad of paper he pulls out of the front pocket of the apron he wears.

“And can I get any food for you?”

“Yeah, about the food...” 

Win raises an eyebrow at this, clearly not expecting this kind of backtalk from Bright, but he can’t help but ask.

“A diner in this rural town serving pizza just… seems against the rules of nature. Or something, don’t you think so?”

“Against the rules of nature?” Win pulls on his bottom lip with his apparently bunny-like teeth, and Bright hopes that it’s too stop endeared laughter and not, like, in disgust at Bright’s inability to have a civil conversation without sharing at least a small portion of the weird shit that he thinks up (a talent that First and Mike have both on multiple occasions pointed out), “Who’s writing these laws of nature then? Seems a bit confusing that they’d rule pizza out from being sold anywhere, to be quite honest.”

“I don’t know who writes them, I just abide by them. I used to come here all the time as a kid, where has all the normal diner food gone?”

“Well, it was serving pizza when I got here, so,” Win shrugs, flicking his head a little as he does so get some stray hair out of his eyes. “Did you want any pizza, or is it too much of an abomination for you?”

Bright narrows his eyes in mock suspicion as he senses Win making fun of him and hands the menu back into his waiting hands.

“Just the iced tea is good for now, thanks.”

Win takes the menu and winds his back into the diner with a wink goodbye.

For a few minutes Bright watches the bustle of the town, absently wondering if it would be too weird to make a run for it even though he’s already placed his order, sharply embarrassed by his outburst over the new pizza menu. He’s certain that the pizza is delicious, and there were enough options on the menu for there to be one that he would enjoy. Hell, he even caught a glimpse of a pepperoni option, which he doesn’t even want to think about right now.

So yeah, the pizza is probably lovely, but he just can’t help but feel a little bit tricked by how the diner has tricked him into thinking it was still identical to the timeless relic that he came to for almost every meal out in the summer months of his childhood.

“Here you go, one special cha yen for here.” 

Win once again appears from behind Bright to reach around and place the glass on the counter. They make eye contact as they smile at each other, and Bright can’t help but wonder if Win is holding it for too long on purpose, if he has some sort of mission to make Bright blush embarrassingly again as his eyes flick down his body for a hot second.

When he is alone and blushing all the way from his hairline to his chest, he is pleased to see that the Thai iced tea looks and tastes identical to the hundreds of others he has slurped down at the eatery over the years.

Bright glances to the heavens for a heavy, embarrassed moment, and sighs before drinking the cha yen he had been craving since making his way back to the rural town.

* * *

That evening, Bright carries his guitar and notebook out into the sweet warm of the evening and lays down in the wild grass, staring up at the tumbling clouds as the heavy summer breeze tangles through the grass and through his hair.

His breathing feels heavy in the still, and as he picks away at his guitar he closes his eyes and thinks of Win, and the angle of his jaw, and the soft wave of his hair, and the melody of his voice.

It’s quite embarrassing, he thinks, that the first person he spoke to since he’s been in Sukhothai should have this much of an effect on him. More evidence of how little he gets out, he supposes, bitterly. But Win certainly had an energy about him, something sharp and quick, that seemed electric even through a simple conversation about the diner’s menu.

Bright blinks up at the reddening sky and catches something inside himself calming at how the lulling tune he’s plucking out catches the wind and seems to float up towards the mountain that sits barely three miles from Khiri Mat’s slumbering spot in the valley. He feels his face split wide with a tired smile as his fingers glide easily over the fretboard.

As quickly as he began, he startled suddenly to a halt and bolted upright in the grass, his guitar tumbling onto his thighs as he pats the ground around him for his notebook and pencil.

Smile never slipping, he flips to a blank page and quickly hashes out the tab of the new melody.

Once it’s out on the paper, he falls heavily back onto the grass and sends a _thank you_ out to Win's voice.

* * *

By the time the next evening rolls around, Bright’s got a couple pages of new riffs plucked out, and when he wanders down to the pub in town, he does so with a spring in his step he reckons he hasn’t walked with since the last time he was in here,

Sukhothai only has one pub, but in all fairness the town is small and close knit so there’s never been a need for another.

It’s much closer to the harbour than the diner and shops that Bright has been frequenting the past couple days, so he has a fifteen-minute walk down to the seafront where the salty breeze whips his hair into his eyes. He’s suddenly thankful that he thought to slip a hairband on his wrist just before he headed out.

Normally, Bright ponders, he would not be seen dead alone in a pub—especially not in a town like this where the residents greet each other on the street with friendly waves and seem to half live in each other’s pockets—but having spent the last twenty-four hours holed up inside the cottage, however cosy it may be, he’s in dire need of human interaction.

Besides, he’s going to a pub, so it’s not like there won’t be alcohol on hand to drown out the embarrassment if it does come to it. 

Loneliness aside, he suspects that as the only place still open at half nine on a Saturday night, it’s fairly likely that Win from the eatery yesterday will be there, and he’ll need to drink to forget his mortification at their interaction the previous day.

As he winds round a twist in the road, Bright comes to the pub. It’s got a little beer garden out front, complete with a jumble of mismatched picnic tables for people to eat in the warm air. Really, it should look clumsy, but the clusters of families that spread over the groups of tables give it a homely feel. 

It feels like looking into a window into a past, with the way that the children seem to be branching out and making friends with the other kids, brothers and sisters blurring together.

Something deep within Bright misses the way he could visit Sukhothai with only First for company and come away with a bunch of friends that he’d spent days exploring with, after badgering their parents to group up on days out. Of course, being a kid he never got any way to contact them after the summer drew to a close, but he made enough pacts each holiday that the friendships must last forever, he thinks solemnly.

Bright weaves through the children running about in the garden to get to the entrance of the pub, and ducks when the door frame hangs a little low on the way in.

Inside the lights are a warm amber, and the comfort of it suits the bustle of friendly chatter that pours out when Bright tugs the door open. Much like the jungle of children outside, the townsfolk are like a humming hive, tables bleeding seamlessly into each other.

Bright spies the bar across the way, and meanders over, once again being wary of the mass of tipsy patrons and the uneven floorboards.

The bar itself is decorated with a number of postcards and coasters that appear to be collated from the nearby towns. _It’s sweet,_ Bright thinks, the way that even though to him Sukhothai is like a secret haven, the people living there help other small towns out in a network of sorts; of brochures and word of mouth.

As he inspects the array of faded postcards, he clocks the bartender serving someone on the other side of the pub. He’s confused for all of three seconds as to why he has frosted tips when it’s not the nineties anymore, before he realises that he must be just growing the colour out.

“What can I get for you?”

On hearing the nineties bartender’s northern accent, Bright wonders if anyone in this decidedly town is in fact a local.

“Pint of whatever you have on tap’s fine, thanks.”

“Singha alright?”

Bright digs around in his back pocket for his wallet as he gives the affirmative. The bartender passes the glass over the bar before reaching for a ballpoint pen that’s resting behind his ear.

“Do you want to start a tab, or do you want to pay upfront?”

“I’ll just pay—"

“P’Tay!” A familiar voice barks over the hum of the crowd.

As Bright turns to regard the newcomer, a hand flies up to his hair, subconsciously tucking a few flyaways from his hair behind his ears before he catches himself and turns sharply with reddened ears.

Of course the guy he’s barely met would turn him into a giddy schoolboy.

The bartender—Tay, Bright’s mind supplies helpfully—focuses his attention away from Bright momentarily, rolling his eyes at Win as he jumps up on a bar stool to the left of him. From this angle, Bright finds he can discreetly glance at him, and the soft way he’s dressed with a threadbare jumper that has to be at least a size too big for him, warms his cheeks further.

“Nong, I’m in the middle of serving a customer,” he scolds, gesturing at Bright with his pen, “you can’t just barge in and interrupt whenever you want.”

At this, Win turns to look at Bright and he smiles when they exchange eye contact, his brow quirking in recognition. He never stops watching him, Bright notices, as he pays for his beer outright rather than opting for a tab. 

As he takes his first sip of his drink, he meets Win's eyes again, whose smile deepens as he raises his hand in greeting and rests his head in his other one—his elbow propped up on the bar.

“Hello, na krub,” he smiles more widely, eyes forming into a crescent moon he finds so fascinating to witness. “It’s nice seeing you here.”

Before Bright opens his mouth, the bartender suddenly reappears behind the bar, glancing between them with suspicion.

“You know each other?”

Win sighs and swivels on his stool towards him.

“Clearly not, phi,” he deadpans, “I just say hello to everyone I see.”

Tay stares at him blankly.

“Obviously I do!” This time it’s Win's turn to roll his eyes. “He came into the diner the other day, didn’t you…?” He trails off tilting his head towards Bright, who hastily swallows his mouthful of beer.

“Bright,” he provides, rubbing at his top lip which feels wet from his clumsy drinking.

“Bright… phi… P’Bright,” Win repeats, staring again, though he seems a little strained this time as his eyes dart all over Bright’s face like he’s not sure where to look.

He must have caught Bright’s furrowed brow, because he’s abruptly turning back to Tay with a slight cough. Tay, who is suddenly smirking at Win with raised eyebrows. 

Although Bright is curious about the nonverbal conversation that appears to be taking place right in front of him, it’s comforting, suddenly being in the presence of two people so clearly in tune with one another. 

He makes the decision to call Mike as soon as he gets back to the cottage.

“He seemed to have a bit of a problem with the menu though.”

Though the comment is addressed to Tay, Win is once again shooting Bright glances from under his soft fringe.

“Finally!” Tay leans towards them across the bar to smile at Bright as he tosses the cloth he was using to polish a glass over his shoulder. “I’ve been telling this one—“, he gestures towards Win who sighs dramatically, eyes amused. They must have had conversation before, Bright thinks to himself. “—that their menu doesn’t make any fucking sense for weeks now! What kind of Thai diner doesn’t sell _gang gai_?”

“Well, technically it’s a basic diner, so it might not be in the menu...” Bright points out, trailing off and shrugging sheepishly when he sees Tay glaring at him.

“I thought you were the good sort, Bright” he says, throwing the cloth down with a flourish and a faux huff.

“Technically, we’ve only had this one conversation, so I can hardly see how you can make that judgement straight off the bat.”

Tay just squints at him and tilts his head, considering. Bright is suddenly struck with the urge to laugh at how doglike he looks like this and has to put his knuckles to his mouth and lean on his hand to suppress his grin.

After a few seconds he’s gesturing broadly, waving his hand at Bright’s general vicinity.

“You just have that… air about you. And you’re already in my good books for acknowledging the disaster going on at the eatery. Win's been working there since the end of term and he still won’t see the truth even though it’s right in front of his nose,” Tay leans towards Bright and adopts a pitying tone, “I appreciate this boy, but it’s hard sometimes, you know. Being friends with someone so delusional.”

“Oh shut up, phi.”

Tay tilts his back at them as he stalks off to the other end of the bar to serve a waiting customer.

“Of course you resent it, nong. You’re the one who keeps lying to yourself.”

Win turns back to Bright. “As you can see, Tay is also very upset by the pizza,”

“Well, as you can’t seem to see, pizza doesn’t belong in a Thai diner.”

Win smiles and stares at Bright. 

_Again._

Bright was beginning to think that Win had a fixation or something. That, or he was one of those people who are perfectly happy to do weird things and not explain why they’re doing the said weird things. 

Now that he thinks about it, despite his sweet appearance, Win does have a kind of challenging energy that makes Bright suspect people don’t fuck with him.

Bright coughs into his hand again, praying for what feels like the hundredth time that the warmth flooding to his face isn’t actually visible.

“So… you only work at the diner in the summer, then?”

“Hmm?” Win asks distractedly, flicking his gaze up to Bright’s. 

Huh.

“Tay said you’ve been working there since the end of term?”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s really a just job to keep occupied when I’m away from uni,” Win shrugs. “I like to stay here, just because it’s a trek to lug all my stuff up and down to Eastern Bangkok in between terms.”

Bright congratulates himself on his excellent accent spotting.

“Oh? So where are you from?”

“Sukhumvit. You?”

“Oh,“ Bright chuckles. “I’m not from here as well. I stay in Huai Khwang District.”

“Huh,” Win’s eyes widened all of a sudden. “I’ve been here for too long, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Your accent sounds like home to me.”

Bright doesn’t know what Win means by that, because it doesn’t make any sense. It’s clear he doesn’t have a Sukhothai accent, so… what home?

_Unless… he’s flirting… with him?_

Bright found himself clearing his throat, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Uhm, so… you’re staying here temporarily or...?”

“Ah, no. I’m actually going to stay here for a while. Drama and theatre studies. Not much of a fan of cities, really. I like the peace.”

Bright hums in consideration.

“Well, you’ve certainly found it here.”

Just as he says it, a surge in the buzz of the crowd behind them culminates in a rowdy cry. They meet each other’s gazes and laugh privately at the irony. Then, quick as a flash, Win is swiping Bright’s glass out from under his nose and taking a hefty sip.

“Hey—“

“What about you then, P’Bai? What brings you here? Having a bit of soul searching before uni kicks off again or what?”

Bright raises his eyebrows at Win's easy nature. He wonders now if Tay and Win's Tay and Win-ness is more of an example of Win's tactility rather than a friendly situation.

“First of all, you can’t just call me Bai.”

“That’s why I’m addressing you as my phi. P’Bai?”

“I know, but Bright is my name, and we’re not even close yet for you to—”

“So you think we’ll be close then?” Win cut him off with a lopsided grin.

_Oh god, this guy is a flirt. A massive, confident flirt._

Bright’s a bumbling mess because of it, so he decided to shift the energy to another thing again.

“Uhm, about your question,” he coughs a bit, “I’m not at uni. I’m actually, um,” he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m a musician. I’m sort of on a bit of a sabbatical right now, I guess. Trying to find some inspiration and all that.” 

When he says inspiration, he flaps his hand about in a vague gesturing way that he belatedly suspects looked like he was trying to get rid of a bad smell.

“A sabbatical, hmm?” Win puts the back of his hand to his forehead, reminding Bright of a distressed princess in a Disney movie. “Such is the way of the artist!” He exclaims with fervour.

“I can tell you study drama,” Bright says wryly.

“Hey!” Win sniffs, pushing Bright’s glass back to him across the bar. “I’m a very serious actor, you know, even though they always call me a rookie.”

“I’m sure.”

Bright takes his beer back from where it’s been pushed and finishes off the remnants of liquid Win had left.

“Are you busy tomorrow, phi?”

Bright startles at the sudden question, which almost made him throw up his drink.

“N-no?”

Win smiles at him.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’m free. Why?” Bright flushes.

Win ducks his head and reaches out to pick at some wood splintering on the bar by his knee.

“I was gonna climb the mountain? Khao Luang, you can see it from the town. Pretty good place to find inspiration, I guess,” Win looks up and scowls good naturedly at the back of Tay’s head. “Was gonna go with P’Tay, you see, but he decided to pick up an extra shift without telling me.” 

Win proceeds to chuck the little bit of wood at Tay’s head, who remains oblivious to the tiny missile and continues animatedly chatting with a customer.

Bright blinks at Win incredulously, who seems to take his disbelief the wrong way.

“I mean, obviously, you don’t have to come. We’ve only just met, I could be planning to leave you in a body bag up on the mountain. It’s just, I do really love it up there and I was gonna climb it anyway but it’s much less lonely when you have someone to talk to. Like, don’t feel obligated or anything but—“

“Hey, slow down,” Bright laughs, feeling light all of a sudden. “Of course I’ll go with you, krub. I wanted to go anyway and it’ll be better with a local to show me the way so I don’t fall to my death,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m very clumsy.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a local, but…” he grins shyly at Bright from underneath his fringe. “Where are you staying? I could pick you up in the afternoon.”

Bright rattles off the address of the cottage and Win jots it down in his phone.

They share a few more rounds after Win finally buys himself a drink, mostly making small talk about their respective childhoods. 

Bright suspects that Win's familiarity with him has a lot to do with his voice being distinctly not from here, and the way his mouth curls over words in the way that Win himself described as sounding like “home”, when he was stone cold sober. 

He has to steadfastly remind himself throughout the evening that this is only the second time he has spoken to Win, and that while his drunken mind likes to ramble on at him about soulmates, fate and destiny, that being a cute and comfortable companion in an unfamiliar place is not criteria enough for a potential lover.

_Unfortunately._

* * *

“Why do you sound so suspicious?”

Bright had thought that it would be a great idea to catch up with Mike before he goes up on the mountain with Win to calm any worries that Mike may have had about Bright falling off the face of the Earth. 

Sadly, Bright as well as forgetting to mention to his best mate where the fuck he had suddenly disappeared off to (“Sukhothai?! Why the heck are you there?”), he also forgot how well Mike was able to pick up on his mannerisms, even through the phone.

“What do you mean? I don’t sound suspicious!” Bright scowls down at his notebook, where he’s doodling while he presses the phone to his ear. He adds a pair of devil horns to the crude depiction of Mike’s face.

“Yes you do,” Mike says flatly. “I’m glad you’re writing again, don’t get me wrong, but usually you give me some huge pretentious—“

“Hey!”

“It’s true! Don’t lie! You give me some pretentious speech about every little thing that inspired every little lyric and chord or what the fuck ever, and I pretend to know what you’re talking about even though we both know I know fuck all about music—”

“You make remixes!”

“I made a whopping great two soundcloud remixes three years ago to impress a boy I met at Chiang Mai.”

“Well clearly that’s more than knowing nothing.”

“Oh shut up. Please stop interrupting me. Let’s just agree that I know nothing about music and the only thing you want to hear about from my job is when I coach kids and I don’t even get paid for that.”

“It’s sweet!”

“I know it is,” Bright can hear his grin through the phone. “But the point is, you’ve not told me what inspired this ‘life changing melody, honestly Mike, it sounds just like a cottagecore love affair, I swear’.”

“I do not sound like that.”

“Yes you do. What does a cottagecore love affair should even sound like anyway?”

“What? Does that mystery not satisfy your need for pretentious explanations?”

“No.”

Bright adds a little pitchfork and some hellfire to his Mike caricature for good measure.

“Have you…” 

Now it’s Bright’s turn to be suspicious.

“Have I what, Mike?” Bright asks, tone warning.

“Have you… met someone?”

“I’ve been here for five days,” Bright says blankly.

“A lot can happen in five days,” he can picture Mike raising his hands defensively.

“Well. I haven’t, so.”

“Hmmm.”

“Look—I need to go I’ve got plans—“

“Plans?”

“Mike—“

“You need to have met someone to have plans with them, krub.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“Okay,” Mike’s voice is amused. “If you say so, krub.”

Bright pulls his phone away from his ear and scowls down at it.

“Talk to you later,” he presses the little red phone on the screen.

Pocketing his phone, he runs his hand through his hair and tugs at the ends where it rests, unruly above his neck.

Win doesn’t count as meeting someone, does it? 

Bright can’t deny how magnetic Win's presence was when they spoke last night. His eyes sparkled when he spoke about his family that it made Bright feel like a moth flapping clumsily in their orbits and the way he told a story conducted a room and drew a few curious ears throughout the evening. 

In spite of Win's adamance that he wasn’t a local, everyone who listened into the way his words rose and fell interjected like they were old friends, eyes fond.

So maybe it doesn’t count.

Maybe Win is just electric. Maybe this is the effect he has on everyone.

_It doesn’t have to mean anything._

Mike can fuck off. He hasn’t met someone.

* * *

Win pulls up in front of the driveway around half three in a battered Camry.

“Cute place, I love the cottage vibes you got going here.” 

Bright is not sure whether to be pleased or worried about the fact that Win looks just as pretty in the daylight in front of his family holiday home as he did in the whir in the pub or the charm of the diner.

Bright grins widely though as Win opens the passenger side door for him before walking round to the driver’s seat.

Before starting the car, he gives Bright a quick once over and then decides to give him a heart attack by leaning over the console and looking down at his feet. He stays like this for a second and Bright has to stare up at the heavens to restrain himself from doing something stupid like burying his nose in his hair and inhaling.

Abruptly, Win pulls back, turns on the ignition and begins to pull away.

“Just checking you have sensible footwear on, phi. Was beginning to wonder whether you owned anything other than those little boots you were wearing last night.”

Oh. Bright chances a glance down at his walking boots. He hopes Win doesn’t think he’s stupid. Obviously he brought walking boots down with him; the cottage is surrounded by fields. After all, summers in Sukhothai can be wet, and he didn’t fancy losing his favourite pair of loafers in boggy pasture.

“You might want to put a hair clip on your bangs though.” 

Bright frowns at that.

“Not that it doesn’t fit you! You actually look nice with bangs and very…” Win coughs and looks steadfastly at the road ahead. “…baby.”

_Oh._

Bright doesn’t particularly know what to say to that. All he knows is his ears are probably redder than the color of Win’s car.

After a quick check, he realises he forgot to bring a hair clip, so he reaches across to play with the dial on the radio. It’s barely a five minute drive, he knows, but the silence in the car with Win makes him feel vulnerable, so he fiddles until the static works to blurt out a barely discernible rendition of Solitude is Bliss.

Win chuckles, and Bright turns to him in question.

“Musician,” Win replies, as if it qualifies as an answer. And as Bright smiles to himself and turns bashfully to peer out the window, he supposes it does.

When Win stops the car, he swivels in his seat to look at Bright. He raises his hand gingerly between them, as if he’s about to tuck Bright’s hair behind his ears but then drops it like something hot. 

Suddenly, he’s thrusting his dainty fist towards Bright, who realises he’s clutching a hair clip between his fingers like a peace offering.

Bright takes it and stretches it over his wrist before pulling his bangs up.

“I like it more when it’s down, just so you know,” Win starts. “But it’s windy out today, and I don’t want you to trip because it blows into your eyes or something.”

“Did you used to have bangs?”

Win laughs, and his eyes crinkle up into crescent moons.

“No, no. I have two sisters, so I had some lying around from when they visited. Thought I’d bring a couple along since you might actually be able to make use of them.”

_I like it more when it’s down._

This is only the third time Bright has seen Win, as he reminds himself again, but Bright knows with every ounce of his body that he is the sweetest man he has ever met. 

Win, with his sisters that visit and his unapologetic kindness and thoughtful hair clip providing.

“Thank you,” Bright says softly.

Win smiles.

* * *

Win was right about the mountain being windy.

There isn’t exactly an easy path, but the way Win takes them has enough places to put their feet, even if it does have them almost vertical at some points, clinging to rocks jutting out above them. 

They don’t talk much as they make their way up, the wind roaring like a voyeur to the little conversation they do make. Bright idly wonders what Win meant when it would be less lonely with someone to talk to because all he feels like is an extra body for Win to worry about stumbling, although he’s athletic himself.

Despite his initial concerns, they make it up the mountain in just under an hour. As Bright catches his breath, he reaches to his bangs to take it down. They’ve settled in a nook carved out of the mountain top, surrounded by jagged rocks, which creates a little cubbyhole which for most part is sheltered from the wind.

Bright peers out across the hills that lightly curve up and down off into the distance.

From here, Sukhothai looks like a matchstick town only a heavy wave away from getting pulled into the ocean. He can just make out the cottage in Khiri Mat and it’s sort of overwhelming how small it is, for somewhere so concrete in his childhood.

He’s always had the cottage; however old he was. He had the cottage when his parent’s split and they both walked away from their family home. He had the cottage when he moved out of his mom’s place.

The cottage has been the one constant.

But seeing it like this—so small, so fragile—he knows deep down that it isn’t the cottage itself that brings him the comfort.

It’s the town. It’s the people. Bright’s always envied the way everyone here moves around each other so seamlessly, like they’re one family. 

It doesn’t matter that the diner isn’t still a carbon copy of the one in his family photo album, it’s the way the seats are cracked from the memories. Even Win and Tay, both clearly just here for work, treating their jobs like a halfway house, have been adopted by the town itself. 

For a town with air so still, the energy of its inhabitants is so tangible. The barn that called itself a cottage, is so, so small.

But Win.

_Win is larger than life._

He’s settled himself on the grass beside Bright, watching him with a curious look on his face. With the way the grass is weaving itself through his hair, Bright half wonders whether the mountain itself is just another instrument of the town, claiming Win as one of its own.

Bright desperately sends a plea to anyone that may be listening to have mercy on him. Because he is just so soft. He’s so delicate and gentle like this, smiling sweetly at him from where he lays. Bright is certain that his dainty features and hypnotic mannerisms is the most lethal combination he has ever come across.

“What are you thinking?” Win's voice is a murmur that almost gets lost in the breeze.

Bright focuses his gaze back on the town. “It’s so small,” he speaks quietly. He’s almost afraid of breaking the quiet that’s settled around them. “I forget how small it is.”

Win sits up, body close to Bright. He can hear his soft breathing close to his ears as Win appears to be trying to match up their eyeline. 

They sit like that for a moment and Bright swears he can feel static zinging in the air between them like the rub of a plastic slide in summer.

They sit like that until Bright can barely remember what he said.

“I’m surprised, to be honest.” 

Bright turned away from the stunning view and faced Win. 

“About what?”

“How you seem to forget everything is small below you when your name is literally Bright.”

Bright raised his eyebrows at that, confused all of a sudden on where the boy is going.

“What?”

Win laughs cheekily. “The sun is literally on the top of the world, which is why everything may seem small below you?”

Bright gives him a dirty look and a shove to the shoulder for that ridiculously unfunny and corny joke, which has him tumbling back into the grass with a yelp of shocked laughter, splitting the still around them.

* * *

Bright spends the next day tucked away in the cottage with his notebook and a pen.

After he got back from the mountain yesterday, he was giddy with excitement from his revelation. His mind was swimming with words and when he put pen to paper, he wrote feverishly.

He wrote about his childhood in Sukhothai, how everything twisted and changed outside of the oasis of the small town. He wrote about the fragility of the buildings; the diner, the pub, the corner shop, the post office, the church. He wrote about them all getting pulled underwater, tugged into some cold yet gentle waves of the sea.

He wrote about townsfolk. He wrote about their warmth, their welcoming arms, the way they move around each other like bees in a hive.

He wrote about Win. About his hands and his voice and his words. About the hair clip and his crescent moon eyes and sharp laughter. 

He wrote about his quick wit and magnetism.

Bright writes and writes and writes until the sun sinks underneath the hills and his hand cramps up. And then he flicks on his bedside lamp and fits his words to the music he had been raving to Mike about.

He falls asleep with his notebook splayed open on his chest.

Maybe Mike was _right._

* * *

“Your total comes to six hundred-forty baht.”

Bright thanks the cashier and hands her the money as he begins to pile his groceries into the tote bag he brought from home. Mike always liked to tell him he looked like a mum when he used it, but he always shut up when Bright pointedly asked him to remind him of how long plastic bags took to degrade.

“Um—sir?”

Bright looks up to see the cashier looking slightly embarrassed.

“Sorry, but you’re forty baht short of your total.” 

It looks like she’s bracing herself for an outburst. It seems that not even this idyllic town is a stranger to dickhead customers, Bright thinks wryly.

“Oh, sorry—“ Bright had begun to dig around in his wallet when he’s interrupted by someone sidling up next to him.

“No worries, here you go,” Win pulls money out of nowhere and puts it in the girl's outstretched palm before resting his hand on the small of Bright’s back and guiding him out of the shop.

Once they’re outside, Bright turns to Win in bewilderment.

“What was that all about?” Win doesn’t answer for a second, just continues to guide Bright down the cobbled street, hand still warm through his t-shirt. 

It sends zips of electricity up his spine, and he finds himself focusing all his attention on not tripping over the uneven pavement. 

It also doesn’t help that his hand easily covers half of Bright’s back; an acute reminder of their difference in size.

Finally, Win answers him.

“Well, it was just a coincidence that I bumped into you there,” they turned a corner into a side street. “I realized last night I didn’t even get your number, phi. I was gonna drive to your place after my shift, but I spotted you and thought I may as well pick you up.”

Pick him up?

“I need to get this into the fridge,” Bright raises his bag sheepishly, his cheeks heating. 

Something deep in him stirred at the thought of being picked up by Win, but he was also concerned about the state the yoghurt he bought would be in if he lugged the shopping along with them into wherever they were going in the shy summer heat.

Win grins at him, eyes amused.

“I’m leading you to my apartment first, don’t worry. You can leave it there.”

Bright’s cheek reddened further as his mind kicked into overdrive at the notion of Win's apartment. 

Would he have bookshelves lining the walls? Would Bright be able to guess his favourites from running his hands over the novels nestled there, eyes drawn to those dog-eared with cracked spines? Would it be neat and tidy, everything with a proper place, or would it be a mess, with clothes spread all over the place and mugs left out on the side?

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“I just told you, P’Bai.” 

Bright levels him with a flat look. 

“I thought you might fancy a splash down on the beach,” he chuckles. “Figured the ocean is plenty awe inspiring for you to wax wonders about them in some love song.”

“Well I’m not in love with a fish, am I?”

“Don’t look at me like that! You could be!” Win sucks his cheeks in, makes a silly kissy noise and bugs his eyes out. “See! A fish can be very attractive.”

“Right.” 

It’s a bit of non-answer but telling Win that he does indeed still look impossibly attractive while also resembling an extra out of Finding Nemo would probably cause his ego to explode, and Bright’s not sure he could survive a beach trip with someone like Win if he was also cocky on top of everything else.

* * *

Win's apartment turns out to be Win and Tay’s apartment. It’s the top floor of an old library, made up of grey cobblestones just like everything else in the town. 

As Bright tries to find places amongst the items already in the stocked fridge for his own food, he sneaks a little glance around the open plan kitchen and living room.

“I didn’t know you play guitar?”

He directs to Win, who’s perched on the arm of a sofa twiddling his thumbs.

“I don’t, it’s Tay’s,” he clarifies. “We live together at uni, but we didn’t get a twelve-month lease, so. Our friend Khao rooms with us too, but he stays with his boyfriend during the holidays.”

Bright closes the fridge door and faces Win, eyes furrowed.

“Why’d you hunt me out for the beach then?” He asks, confused. “Surely you could’ve just gone with Tay?”

“He’s at work. Besides, I enjoy your company. I want to spend more time with you,” he hops up from the sofa. “Is that okay? Sorry, everyone tells me I’m too forward,” his cheeks went a subtle shade of pink and ducks his head. 

Bright finds it hopelessly endearing and tries to quell the dizzy butterflies that seem to have woken up in his belly.

“Of course it’s okay, Win,” and then, as an afterthought, driven by Win's own forwardness—“I like spending time with you too. You’re a very interesting… uhh… person.”

Win's responding grin lights up the room.

“I thought you’re going to say fish, but a ‘person’ works too.”

“Shut up,” Bright laughs at that. “Let’s go.”

“Brilliant. You can borrow Tay’s flip flops.”

* * *

The sun is warm on their backs as they stroll down to the beach and Bright finds himself glad that he opted for shorts. Both start to giggle at the ridiculous _slap slap slap_ sound of their flip flops against the hot pavement as they start to head off. But apart from that, neither of them particularly feels the need to talk much, triggering Bright to the revelation that Win may be the only person apart from Mike and First who he feels comfortable to be quiet with.

The beach they’re at isn’t at all a touristy beach, despite the long stretch of sand that winds golden across the seafront. There’s a couple dogs walking at the opposite end of where they arrive, just past the sand dunes. But besides that, they have the beach for themselves.

As soon as they set foot on the sand, Win adopts a mischievous grin and Bright thinks if he hasn’t got to play Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream so far in his degree, then it’s all been a waste. He’s about to tell Win as much, when his hand slaps down on his shoulder before he takes off in a sprint cackling wildly.

“You’re it!” He yells over his shoulder.

Bright shakes his head in disbelief.

“I can’t run in flip flops!”

“Then take them off!” Win waves his own pair above his head, eyes glinting madly.

Bright does and bounds towards Win, determined. Win turns around when he hears Bright’s footsteps in the sand and starts laughing so hard he has to clutch his stomach and bend over.

“You look so—“ he pauses to wipe a tear from his eye. “You look so dumb when you run, oh my god.”

Bright sees this as a golden opportunity and ducks down to jab at the back of his knee, successfully chicken legging him.

“It!”

Win tumbles forward into the sand, squawking.

“You bastard!”

Bright faces him as he runs backwards towards the sea, noting that he’s not had the same foresight as Bright, despite being the one to propose their trip. He’s decked out in black jeans, in spite of the unusual heat, so Bright turns towards the sea and runs into it until he’s wading through water crashing against his knees.

He waves his flip flops above his head, just like Win did moments earlier, and lets out a triumphant cry.

But the cry turns into a startled shriek as Win smirks and barrels towards him, showing no signs of stopping.

In the moment before the disaster strikes, it's almost like time slows down. The water is warm where it ebbs and flows around his legs. The sand is soft underfoot, but it also scratches gently as he walks. 

Bright has greatly underestimated the lengths Win would go to win a simple game of it.

He has also greatly underestimated how quickly he could fall for someone, especially if that someone is Win.

When Win suddenly bursts into the sea, sending up a splash in his wake, time speeds up again. He tackles Bright to the ground and they both roll about in the water, spluttering and laughing.

Finally, they just sit still in the ocean, grinning at each other. The only sounds in the world are the wail of seagulls and the lapse of the waves around them. 

Bright licks his lips, suddenly conscious of the way the saltwater is drying, tacky against his skin. Win's eyes flit down to track the movement, and Bright is enraptured by how pretty his eyelashes are.

It hits him like a punch to the gut, then, how close they’re sitting to each other. It would be so, so easy to kiss him, right here in the middle of the ocean. It’s like a tug in his stomach, pulling him urgently to lean forward and taste the sting of salt, to brush the dampness away from his cheekbone with his thumb, to swallow his sweet smile with his own. It’s so quiet out here, but the silence between them is so loud.

“I want to cook you dinner.”

Bright blinks up at him, to find his eyes smiling back at him, soft and amused.

“Okay.”

He stands up out of the water, before he freezes.

“What is it?” Win asks, a concerned hand already hooked around his shin like an anchor.

Bright gestures helplessly to the expanse of the sea.

“Tay’s flip flops,” he sighs, body slumping dejectedly.

Win's bark of laughter has him smiling again in no time.

* * *

They trail back up the path to Win's flat, wet clothes clinging to them uncomfortably but starting to dry up slowly in the heat of the sun. 

Win whines all the way there about his jeans (“They’re constricting me, phi! I feel like I’m getting digested by a pair of snakes!”) but he gets no sympathy as Bright smartly points out that he would be fine if he hadn’t insisted on drowning him. 

Win tells him not to be so dramatic. Bright reminds Win which out of the two of them is studying drama.

When they finally make it into Win's kitchen, Bright is tossed a bundle of Tay’s old clothes and follows the direction of Win's pointed finger to the bathroom to get changed. Win has given him a worn pair of grey trackies and a stretched out white t-shirt with the Aberystwyth logo in the corner.

He wrings out his damp hair in the sink and huffs at the lack of head towels in the bathroom, shaking his head like a dog before heading back out the hall to find Win. He’s changed into a soft shirt and trackies too and is standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hands on his hips, staring at the open fridge with a puzzled look on his face.

“You alright?” Win turns at Bright’s voice and tucks his arms around his middle, shrinking himself.

“I know I said I would cook for you but…” He trails off, grinning a little sheepishly.

“But?” Bright prompts.

“I can’t exactly… cook.”

Bright laughs.

“Hey! Don’t laugh at me! I even bought cookbooks and everything at the beginning of this summer. Proper chef and all that, but,” He shrugs, “Everything I touch burns—except pizza! But well...”

“Well it’s lucky you have me,” Bright smiles. “I love cooking, and I was getting my shopping before you so graciously dropped by, so I already have everything in your fridge.”

Win's returning smile is blinding.

Bright makes them a simple and hearty _pad see ew_ , because while he was grocery shopping earlier, he didn’t feel like grabbing any particularly interesting ingredients. A part of him feels embarrassed and the fairly bland dish, but Win simply beams at him and jokes that it’s really just a treat to be eating something that’s not charred or straight out of a takeaway tub.

They eat around the dining table, exchanging titbits about their lives—Bright’s music and Win's studying. 

Bright learns that while Win hasn’t played Puck, he appreciates the comparison, lighting up when Bright points it out, but that he did play Peter Pan in a high school play. Bright agrees with him when he comments that both characters have the same chaotic energy. 

Bright tells him about the rift he’s felt between his music and his inspiration since he moved out of his mom’s place, how stifled he felt living so close to Bangkok whilst also feeling like just a spec of dust at the edge of it’s fast pace. Win admits that’s how he felt having lived in the area too, which is why he decided to move to a rural town like Sukhothai and try his luck.

“I’ve always been a family man I guess, so I wanted to go somewhere where the people felt like family. Big city universities just seemed too closed off for me. I can’t imagine living in massive halls. My friend, Gun, from back in Bangkok, he went to Sripatum University, right, and he said that the guy in the room next to him didn’t say a word to him the whole first year.” he leans back into the sofa they’ve migrated too and runs his hand through his fringe. “Imagine that. Brutal.”

“I can tell.” At Win's quirked eyebrow, he clarifies. “That you’re a family man. You’re very caring and you have like, this energy,” he flushes, knowing that he’s rambling. “You’re a very warm person, if that makes sense? I find you comforting to be around. I know this is a kind of a weird thing to say, like we barely know each other, but your... presence is so welcoming,” Bright feels the tips of his ears warming and peers down at the ground, suddenly finding it hard to meet his eyes. “I feel safe around you,” he finishes dumbly.

In his periphery, he sees Win's soft hand hover in the air between them before it settles heavy and hot on Bright’s thigh.

“Bright,” he whispers.

“Sorry if that’s weird,” he mumbles, still not ready to face Win's gaze, skin electric where his thumb is rubbing absently.

“Bright,” he repeats again, disbelieving.

Bright looks up from the floor and chances a glance at Win.

He’s staring at him imploringly, eyes flickering all over Bright’s face like there’s too much of him to take in. His other hand is suddenly tucking Bright’s hair behind his ears gently, stroking softly at the skin on the nape of his neck as he cards through it.

“God.” He laughs out, voice a little wet. “You’re so—how are you so sweet, Bright? And soft. There’s softness behind your seemingly cold exterior. How are you real?”

“Yeah?” He asks searchingly, still unsure.

“Yes.” Win smiles at him fondly. “Yes, god.”

“Do you think Tay will mind if I borrow his guitar?”

Win shakes his head slowly, brows knitting up in confusion.

“I’ve written lots of songs since I’ve come down here. I want to play you one.” 

Win must suspect that this is Bright’s way of breaking the tension of the moment they were having, and he visibly swallows his disappointment before plastering on a smile and jokingly asking “What? Is it about me?”

Bright shrugs so heavily it feels like his head is burrowing into his shoulders. Win seems to sense the weight of what Bright’s about to play him and squeezes his thigh once reassuringly before gesturing towards Tay’s acoustic.

“He won’t mind. I’d love to hear it.” 

Bright goes to pick it up and settles back next to Win who is watching him with a soft smile on his face.

He spends a quick moment tuning the strings, and then he’s off.

His fingers dance over the fretboard, and he fills the flat with the first melody he wrote in the cottage. He closes his eyes as he plays, sinking into it. 

It’s refreshing, playing a song just for the person it was about. All the little nuances he noticed about Win from their first meeting are in the way picks the strings—a note for his quick wit, a chord for his sarcasm. 

After a minute of this gentle intro, he starts crooning out lyrics. 

They’re all unmistakably about Win, the ones he scrawled down last night after their climb up the mountain. His deep voice feels like a stranger between them, singing shyly about crescent moons and electricity. He’s always thought that his voice is like a foreigner inside his chest; too big for his body, even if Win likes to tease him about it. But when he’s singing about Win, whose energy bursts out of the seams of his slight and delicate body, it feels fitting.

He comes to a finish, opening his eyes to meet Win's.

“Bright,” he says again, voice cracking, desperate.

“That seems to be your favourite word today,” Bright jokes, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of Win's focus. It makes him want to squirm, a little like he’s an insect on a glass slide under a microscope.

“It’s my favourite word every day,” Win lifts the guitar off from where it’s resting on Bright’s lap and puts it on the floor, before lifting a hand to touch his jaw. “Bright,” he shuffles towards him on the sofa. “Bright, Bright, Bright.”

“It doesn’t sound like a word anymore,” Bright replies distractedly, eyes caught on the pink of Win's lips. It feels like they’re back in the ocean, even though they’re both bone dry.

“It’s more than a word,” Win smiles, and tugs Bright forward.

The first press of their lips is shy, and Bright can feel Win's smile widening so much that he can’t kiss him properly anymore, so he pulls back and peppers his pout with little kisses until he huffs and brings him close again. The second time around is still sweet, but Bright feels Win's hands travel up to play with his hair and he hastily curves his own across Win's back, stroking lazily up and down. He can taste a hint of the sauce from the noodles he cooked for him and the domesticity of it makes something curl up warm in his belly. 

Win hums into the kiss and the buzz of it reminds Bright of why he thinks Win's electric, why he thinks he’s magnetic. Bright feels like he’s searching for something in the pink of Win's mouth, in amongst the part of his smile and the salt from the seawater, still stubbornly clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Eventually Bright pulls himself away and tucks himself into the crook of Win's shoulder, inhaling.

“Why are you so pretty?” He groans, voice slightly muffled by Win's shirt, and Win laughs, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“I could say the same about you, _teerak_.” 

Bright preens at the pet name and kisses the juncture of his throat in approval.

He pulls back for a moment where he sits in Win's lap and rests his hands on Win's shoulder. As he shifts, Win's hands find solace on Bright’s hips like they’re in tandem.

“I’m glad I met you, Win.” 

Win lifts one of Bright’s hands to his mouth and presses his lips to it, reverent.

“I don’t like Bangkok,” Bright says as if it means something.

“Me too,” Win's voice is fond, like it does.

* * *

Later, Bright sends a quick text to Mike, peering at his phone screen over where Win is sleeping on his chest.

_His name is Win._

* * *

_And isn't it just so pretty to think_

_All along there was some_

_Invisible string_

_Tying you to me?_

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on @brightwineunoia :)


End file.
